


In the Hours Before Dawn

by greensweater



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Teen Romance, Underage Drinking, small town cross country teams ftw!, this fic won't hurt you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensweater/pseuds/greensweater
Summary: Senior year was supposed to be like every other year in Castiel Novak's life: boring, sequestered, strictly regimented. But the summer before senior year, Castiel and his uncle Zachariah move to a small beach town in North Carolina. There, Castiel joins the cross-country team. There, he meets Dean Winchester, and nothing will ever be the same again.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 4





	In the Hours Before Dawn

_Dean Winchester  
My Summer Vacation_

_The tourists always come in a huge rush of spray-on sunscreen and cheesy "life at the lake '' T-shirts and American hillbilly rock. The shops are only open during beach season, which is basically just May to September, when the tourists catch the first few glimpses of fall and realize they have lives beyond greasy Ameretti's Vineyard Pizza and tanning on the sand.  
But I don't leave with them. Me and my family and everyone like us packs up the overpriced boutique sundresses and shuts the ice cream shop doors. I like the change at first, from the rush of summer to fall, when I don’t have to man the store as much. Around January, though, I think of the crowded, sticky July months with fondness. Everyone does. Plus, the money is in the summertime. The whole economy runs on those few months._

_This year isn’t any different, even though it’s the summer before senior year when everyone else’s parents are taking them around to colleges. My dad isn’t. I think he expects that I’ll just stay here after high school, helping him run the store in the summer and working at the plant with him in the winter. I don’t know. I want to help my dad and I want to be around for my little brother, so that’s probably what’s gonna happen. And what would I do otherwise? Nothing.  
But I want something to change this year, I do. What do I want out of senior year? I don’t know… something different. Maybe I’ll win the lottery or something, move to Hawaii. Anything. I feel it, though, like a weird feeling down the back of my neck. Something’s coming._

...

Castiel Novak stares at the blank page in front of him, twisting his pencil fretfully between his long, skinny fingers. A slight breeze from the open window rustles the pages of his notebook, and he sighs, putting down his pencil and rubbing his aching temples. He likes to write, sure, but this kind of generic narrative essay bores him to the point of exhaustion. It’s nearing mid-August, and he dreads the beginning of school. At least in the summer, he can seclude himself and pretend it’s by choice.

“Castiel!” bellows his uncle from downstairs. “It’s two o’clock!”  
A jolt of panic runs through his body and he gets up so fast that he nearly falls out of his chair. “Coming, Uncle!” he calls back, trying to steady his voice.

“Are you ready?” Zachariah Novak asks his nephew as he comes downstairs. “We have to hurry, or we’ll be late—and that’s not the sort of impression you should give your coach on the first day of camp, is it?”

“Sure,” Cas mumbles, and swings his bag around his shoulders. He avoids eye contact with his uncle, climbing into the passenger seat of the impeccable cream-colored BMW, a possession of which Zachariah is greatly fond.

The drive to the school is tense. Castiel begins to chew his lip, a nervous habit, and stops when Zachariah sends him a look of disgust. They park just behind a battered pick-up truck, which opens to let out a stream of boys shouldering bags and water bottles. 

“There go your teammates,” Zachariah says with a hint of disdain, then stops the car. “What are you waiting for, Castiel?”

Castiel swallows hard and grips his bag a little tighter. _Come on_ , he says to himself, and gets out of the car.

“I’ll pick you up at five o’clock,” says Zachariah, and peels off in a dignified cloud of dust.

Copper Beach High School has a tennis court, a baseball field, a soccer field, a football field with a track around it, and a few dilapidated buildings that Castiel assumes are used to house the actual classes. The fields themselves aren’t in the best condition, either; the grass is patchy, and the tennis court fence is rusted through. Still, a track is a track, and a route is a route. You can run anywhere. 

The rest of the team arrives in spurts, and they all joke and laugh and don’t talk to him. Castiel doesn’t mind. He just stands there, bag tight in hand, waiting for practice to start so he can focus on something besides the fact that he has no friends here.

“Novak?” a gruff voice inquires from behind him.

He spins, almost losing his balance. “Yes,” he stammers. “Castiel.”

“Well, don’t get your panties in a twist,” the man says. He adjusts his grungy baseball cap and sticks out a thick hand. “Bobby Singer. Your coach.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Singer,” Castiel says earnestly. “I’m excited for the season to begin.” He means it—Bobby seems strict, but the look in his eyes is steady. Bobby will be a fair coach, if nothing else.

“Who the fuck is this asshole?” Castiel hears one of the boys say to his friend. The boy has dirty-blond hair and freckles, lots of them, dotting his face and his arms. His ears start roaring, and he doesn’t hear what the other boy says in response. When his ears roar, Castiel knows, his face turns bright red as an accompanied humiliation. He turns away, his chin dropping to the ground as he takes one deep breath, then another.

After a few minutes of general chaos, Bobby finally brings the team to order with a hoarse “shut up!” The boys quiet, settling into a sort of messy semi-circle. Castiel desperately hopes for a talking-free practice.

“Icebreakers are fool things made up by middle-aged pricks,” Bobby begins. Castiel has never loved anyone more. “But we don’t all know each other here, and since we’re a team, we got to get to know each other. Cas—Castee—” he frowns. “New kid. Novak. Say something about yourself, son.”

Scratch that about loving Bobby—Castiel has never hated anyone more. “Um.” His heart begins to thump inside his chest as he meets the gaze of the blond boy, the one with freckles. He quickly shifts his eyes to the grass. “My name is Castiel Novak. I moved here from San Francisco this summer. I don’t know what else to say.” He looks appealingly at Bobby.

Bobby shakes his head. “You’re done, boy. Team! Idjits! Say your names and then we’ll start doing what y’all are actually here to do.”

Around the circle they go. Castiel can barely keep up with all the names—most are easy, like Gordon, Sam, and Jo—but there’s just so _many_ of them. It’s like the entire school is on the cross country team.

The blond-haired boy’s name is Dean Winchester. That’s one name he’s going to remember.

… 

Panting and sweaty, Castiel staggers back to the school after his three-mile run. He hasn’t run all summer, and he’s paying the price now. Most of the team has already completed their runs and are waiting at the school for Bobby to dismiss them. As he jogs up, some of them give him disinterested once-overs, like they’ve seen boys like him before and don’t much like what they see.

At least he wasn’t last. At least that.

Dean is there, messing around with his friends: a guy with brown skin and a nice smile (Castiel thinks his name was Victor), a skinny blonde girl (Jo?), and a beanpole with messy hair who Dean can’t stop elbowing in the ribs. The beanpole says something and they all fall over themselves laughing.

A fit of gnawing jealousy erupts in his gut, and he quickly looks away, fighting it down. There’s no use to envy, not when he doesn’t expect to make any sort of connection here. He’s here to run, pass his classes with straight As, and go away to college as soon as he can. No time for friends, and frankly, he doesn’t think anyone here would even talk to him. He’s the new kid; more than that, he’s the _weird_ kid, awkward and stiff and antisocial.

During practice, he runs with his head down, staring at the ground in front of him. The rest of the kids clump in various groups, making occasional jokes and comments that evoke a spattering of breathless laughter. Castiel focuses on his form, relishing the burn in his calves and the sweat on his brow. He’s not the fastest runner in the group, but he’s definitely in the top half, almost neck-and-neck with Dean. Occasionally, he’ll catch a glimpse of Dean looking at him, then speeding up, like he’s trying to outrun Castiel. They run around corners, across streets, behind churches, over meadowed paths, in the weirdest, most jagged route Castiel’s ever run. Tourists and townsfolk alike give them a thumbs-up as they go past.

After practice, Castiel drinks heavily from his water bottle and wipes the sweat from his forehead. It was a hard run, but he feels spent in a good way. Less anxious. He survived the first day; how hard could the rest of them be?

…

The answer is, pretty damn hard.

Cross-country camp at his old school in San Francisco was difficult, but at least he had his brothers to run with and someone to drive him home after practice. 

Back home, there was no Dean Winchester.

“Novak!” Dean yells after practice on the third day of camp. “Hey!”

Castiel’s hands pause on his shoelace. He straightens, reluctantly meeting Dean’s gaze. “May I be of service?” 

A few kids giggle. Castiel doesn’t know what’s so funny.

Dean’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Yeah. Nice shoes, man.”

They’re brand-new Nikes, clean and sleek. In comparison, Dean’s shoes are scuffed, worn, generic store-brand. Castiel’s stomach churns uncomfortably, aware of something off-balance, unfair.

“Hey, Casteel or whatever your name is,” Dean says, seeming to feed on the other kids’ stifled laughs and admiring looks, “Tell your daddy to take you back to whatever rich suburban hell-hole you crawled out of.”

To his side, the skinny kid with the messy hair winces, just slightly. But he doesn’t say anything to stop Dean.

“Zachariah is _not_ my father,” Castiel says loudly, heart thumping in his chest. “Don’t speak to me like that.” He kneels once again to tighten his laces, desperately hoping that Zachariah is on time to pick him up.

“Whatever, man,” Dean scoffs, kicking a pebble that skitters over the pavement and lands next to Castiel’s shoe. “Come on, Sam.” He grabs the skinny kid by the arm and they start walking towards the parking lot. 

Shoelaces are quite hard to tie with shaking hands, Castiel finds. He swallows and knots the laces hard, still kneeling on the sidewalk. 

“Don’t let that dumb kid rattle ya, okay?” Bobby’s gruff voice says from above. “It’s growin’ pains; he’ll settle down and make nice soon enough.”

Castiel nods, too overwhelmed by Bobby’s unexpected kindness to rise from his position on the ground until Zachariah’s horn beeps, the mere sound of it conveying his impatience.

“It would be nice if you could find a ride home,” Zachariah says as soon as Castiel gets in the car, tapping his fingers idly against the wheel. “I have clients in the evening, and picking you up interrupts my schedule.” This meant, of course, that he would not be picking Castiel up from practice any longer.

“Of course, Uncle,” Castiel says, not confident in the slightest. “I’m sure I can find someone.”

…

The next few days he walks home from practice, bag thumping against his hip as he slowly learns his way around Copper Beach. There are a lot of restaurants, ice-cream shops, and souvenir stands—for the tourists, of course. Castiel isn’t really a tourist, but he’s new, and the novelty of it all both excites and frightens him. Back home, he stayed in his room or ran the same familiar route around the neighborhood when he wasn’t at school. There were family trips to Italy, to France, to Tokyo, but all were strictly regimented and he had to stay with his brothers the whole time. In Castiel’s entire life, any element of freedom had been out of the question.

_And now that I have it, I’m too scared to use it,_ he thinks disgustedly, kicking pebbles down the dusty sidewalk. He remembers Dean Winchester’s taunts, the accusations of _snotty stuck-up rich boy_ , the scornful looks, the avoidance. Maybe all of it is true. Maybe he deserves it for not being brave.

…

Cross-country practice is the part of the day that Castiel simultaneously loves and dreads the most. Through running, he can escape from his loneliness and boredom… but he has to face the fact that no one really talks to him. The only person who seems to have any interest in him at all is Dean—and Dean makes fun of his clothes, his way of speaking, his uncle’s car (all deemed “pretentious” and “stuck-up”). _It isn’t fair, but what can I do about it_ , Castiel thinks resignedly, constantly pushing himself past Dean at practice so they don’t match pace. _If I got angry, or fought back, it would ruin my family’s reputation in this town. It would confirm what they think of me._ Better, in Castiel’s opinion, to keep his head down.

… 

A week into cross-country practice, Castiel snaps.

(Meaning, of course, he goes into town for the first time by himself, not tagging unenthusiastically behind Zachariah to the bank.)

The weather is perfect, as usual; pillowy clouds roll gently across the bright blue summer sky. Seagulls squawk obnoxiously and pick at the french fries littered on the pavement. The air smells of fried food and lake-water, a strange yet surprisingly enticing aroma.

Castiel decides to buy a pack of gum at the general store, which is a charming little shop; the words “General Store” are plastered in sloping red letters above the little sign that says “cash only.” Anxiety thrums through his blood. He’s never bought something by himself before, sheltered as his childhood and teen years were. This, however, is a test. If he’s able to do this, to walk into a store and buy a pack of gum, maybe he’s able to be independent. Maybe he’s not such a coward after all.

Castiel walks into the store and his stomach drops. _Of course_. Behind the counter is Dean Winchester, air-drumming to rock music playing over the speakers and mouthing along enthusiastically. His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t notice Castiel staring.

And Castiel is staring. This is the first time he’s seen Dean not act like a puffed-up jock or a protective brother or an obnoxious ladies’ man—this is Dean in his natural state. This is Dean when he thinks no one’s watching.

The spell breaks; Dean opens his eyes, flinching when he sees Castiel just standing there in the doorway.

“Oh, it’s you,” Dean says, cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed red. “What do you want, Novak?” The unfriendliness is palpable in his tone, so different from the relaxed, even happy state of a moment earlier.

“A pack—a pack of gum,” Castiel stammers, inching closer to the register. “I need one.”

Dean sighs, swinging his feet from their place on the counter and pointing to the shelf next to the soda machine. “Gum’s there.”

“Thanks,” Castiel mutters, and carefully takes a pack of spearmint gum from the stack. _Now you pay,_ he reminds himself, and pulls a crumpled twenty from his pocket, laying the gum and the money on the counter.

Dean raises his eyebrows at the twenty, huffing incredulously, but says nothing. Castiel pockets the change.

“See you around, Novak,” Dean calls as Castiel is leaving. Surprised, Castiel pauses in the doorway, sneaking a glance over his shoulder. Dean is carefully not looking back at him.

… 

Castiel begins to enjoy his walks home from practice. The late afternoons begin to mellow, turning from uncomfortably hot to a pleasant, breezy warmth. Over the next week, he learns his way around town, exploring the two main streets and hidden alleyways, ice cream shops and clothing stands. He buys more gum from the general store, and Dean counts his change with a blank face, giving him a small nod each time he walks in.

Zachariah leaves him alone, more or less. It’s a welcome change from the helicopter-parenting of his brothers. Of course, there is always the looming authority that Zachariah makes sure he respects; Castiel knows that if he falls out of line, Zachariah won’t hesitate to deal out punishment.

Cross-country, though daunting at first, has become his haven from the silent house. Even though Castiel hasn’t made friends, he enjoys hearing the other kids talk and laugh. It makes the loneliness bearable.

Two weeks into camp, he’s neck-and-neck with Dean, _again_ , and this time Dean isn’t having it. He pushes ahead of Castiel, shooting him a stony glare. Castiel shakes his head, sweat dripping into his eyes, and runs harder, elbow brushing Dean’s bare back. They run like a pair of wild horses straining at the bit, feet pounding the cracked pavement. The sun beats down on their shoulders.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps suddenly, and crumples. Castiel skids to a halt, panting hard, hands on his knees. 

“What happened?” he asks breathlessly.

“Stupid fucking knee,” Dean grunts. “I sprained it during the winter and ever since then it’s been a real fucking _bitch_. Help me up, will you?”

Castiel offers a hand, and Dean takes it, hopping on his left foot to stand.

“Do you need help walking back?” Castiel asks.

Dean glances around. They’ve outpaced everyone—it’ll be a while before anyone catches up. “Yeah,” Dean mutters unhappily. “Thanks.”

They walk back to camp, Castiel supporting Dean while Dean swears viciously and hobbles on his left leg. It doesn’t take that long, but to Castiel it feels like an eternity. Dean’s hand is warm and sweaty on his arm, and Castiel feels its imprint a long time after he leaves.

“Thanks,” Dean says again when Castiel hands him over to Bobby, eyes meeting Castiel’s for the first time. They’re really green, Castiel notices—like emeralds, or lush meadow-grass in summertime.

Dean isn’t at practice for three days—“Bed rest,” Bobby says cryptically whenever anyone asks him—but he shows up the fourth day, stubborn as a mule. He doesn’t run the full route, but he’s there, and he tries just as hard as any other day.

Castiel doesn’t look at him, and he walks home alone, swinging his bag and kicking the pebbles. Things never change, he knows that. Nothing ever happens to him, even when he tries.  
But then—

“Novak! Hey, Novak!”

Castiel looks up from his shoes to see Dean Winchester, head out the window of a beat-up red truck.

“What?” Castiel calls back, cautious and a little bit nervous. Dean doesn’t sound malicious or teasing—in fact, his face is neutral, absent of any cruelty.

Dean puts the car in park, gestures towards the empty seat on his right. “Need a ride?”

He shouldn’t accept. He should just keep walking and never speak to Dean Winchester again. But for the first time in his life, Castiel feels brave.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and gets in the car.

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading! leave a comment if you enjoyed/want more!


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